McCormick Memoirs
by HyougaAkira
Summary: When Randy figures out why Kenny keeps dying, Kenny has to reflect a bit on his life and afterlife. Does he want to move in with Damian, Saddam, and Satan? And most importantly, red or black drapes? Domestic comedy meets depression and afterlife. And lava
1. Chapter 1

So. Here we are again.

You know me already. Kenny McCormick, that shitty-ass poor kid from the trailer park? The one in the orange parka? Yeah. Me.

See, there's a reason that I wear the parka. It ain't cause I find it fashionable, and it sure as hell ain't cause it's comfortable. It's just that, contrary to popular belief, some of the people around here (here being school, where I'm writing this) actually give a shit about me. Which, believe me, is fucking annoying.

I wear it to cover up the left-overs from my job. Yeah, I know what you're thinking, Kenny's a whore. No shit, Sherlock! I've only been selling since I was ten, after all. I know some who got their start even younger. Poor bastards (and bitches; we mustn't forget the straight population… though as we all know, most johns are married men addicted to the asshole). At least for me, it wasn't all that much of a transition.

I got my start with the fat-ass, predictably. He wanted to get off; he had money and some leftovers. It'd been a few days since I'd eaten, and there was no way I was gonna let the chance go to waste. I already knew about taking it, of course. Dear old Dad had educated me in the way of the bitch quite thoroughly by that point. I hope Damien's making hell plenty hot for him. Yeah, he's dead. Got drunk and fell in the lake. Good riddance.

Damian and I still keep in touch. Believe it or not, it looks like prince-of-hell isn't that different from trash-of-South-Park. Not sure what that says about hell as a whole, but whatever. He's probably the closest thing I have to a steady boyfriend. Whenever I head down there we'll have a couple fucks, share some weed, and hang for a while before I head back. Call it a vacation house for me. Hell, I mean.

Actually, the whole Hell thing was part of my coming-out shit. It might surprise you, but Mom used to be religious back when I was little. I actually lived a nice little sinless life until my first couple of deaths, and so when I went straight to hell I knew I must be gay. God's a vindictive fucker, but we all knew that already, right? Saved me a whole lot of angst over coming out, though. So maybe he's just an idiot who picks the stupid, painful way to get the point across.

So, enough about heaven and hell and all that jazz. I've seen hell, and tried heaven (turns out that heaven's just like the Church: give them a bribe and they'll forgive all your sins). Believe me, hell's more fun. And not just cause I have friends there; the décor is killer.

Back to my job. If I'm writing a fucking autobiography, I don't want it to be about dying all the time. It gets old real quick, like the subway. Your first time, you're all excited about putting money in the machine, and then it's just "Hey, can't this thing go any faster?" I end up heading down to hell often as not after a night of work. Don't get me wrong, I love the sex and all, but it's nice to kick back in a chair and watch the magma with Damian.

Where were we? Ah, yes, prostitution. Cartman kept buying me, but he was a cheap-ass and I ended up moving on to better and bigger things. A couple hookers downtown were old friends, they showed me the ropes. The young ones are always popular, the younger the better, particularly when they're little blonde boys. So I made a shitload back then. Dad kept taking it all for booze money, of course. Probably the reason he could afford to get so drunk he fell in the lake.

So I end up working the street side of things, around downtown. Whoop-didee-fucking-do. That's life, and it's pretty comfortable, really. Let me move out of that shit trailer and away from Kevin, my big brother. With Dad gone, he felt he had to try and fill the role of abusive alcoholic… no wait, that's giving him too much credit, isn't it? With dad gone he was the biggest and strongest, so he was the one who got to sit home getting drunk while the rest of us worked our asses off.

My apartment's not bad. I actually like it. Damian helped me get set up. Back when I moved out, when I was fourteen and he was god-knows-how-many-millenia old (oddly enough, he ages like we do, at least for now. He told me something about reversing time to echo back and forth or something, but I don't really remember it), Satan was dating that Chris guy again, back then, so he was in a good enough mood to let Damian come up and help me decorate. I have a lava lamp with actual lava. No touching, if you like your fingers.

Well, you're probably wondering why I'm writing a memorial now. After all, I'm just seventeen. No real big issue, right? Well, it turns out that Mr. Marsh accidentally figured out how the hell I keep dying and coming back all the time. He says that hell's actually some alternate dimension or some shit like that, and my manifestation in a higher plane is some sort of wormhole locus or something that zaps me back to Earth as soon as it catches up with me. Again, science-speak that I don't understand. But he says he might have a way of undoing it, if I want to stop dying three times a week. I'm still kinda on the fence about it… dying's a bitch, yeah, but if I keep things the way they are, then I can see Damian once in a while and hang out around here. Not sure I'd like hell all that much full-time anyways, not with that crazy bitch Saddam running around everywhere.

I guess I'm writing this out to get my thoughts down, maybe make a good decision for once. We'll see how it goes. Until next time,

Yours truly,

Kenny

* * *

zOMG, a story. Yes, I'm actually writing stuff still. I've been taking a break, getting settled in at college, and writing shit for people on BathroomWall (yes, the facebook app) who wouldn't know quality writing if it hit them in the face with a wet fish. Not that my writing is quality, but doesn't that just demonstrate my point? I'm Icarean Karma on there, but that's probably utterly worthless information.

This has been puttering around on my computer for a few months now, i decided to bring it to some sort of end and upload it. If the response is good, I'll start working on the actual story part later on. Yes, there will be gratuitous mansmex. Yes, there will be Damian and Kenny snuggling. Yes, there will be Stan and Kyle in obvious denial over their gayness. All that fun stuff you come here to read.

If I get a bunch of reviews asking me to write more, maybe I will. Maybe not. I don't know. Not like I have it planned out or anything, I just tend to wing it.

Tootles.


	2. Chapter 2

Whoo, sorry, all. I haven't been doing much writing in forever. So, yeah. Chances are I'll forget to write any more (again) unless someone reviews. How's that for a not-so-subtle threat?

* * *

March 7th, 2008

I just realized I forgot to put a date on the last entry. Sorry, shitheads. That was Sunday, March 2nd. So that's all cleared up. See, that's one of the problems, my head's all messed up from the trips to hell and back… I keep spacing out. It's either that or the stuff Damien gives me; we were trying meth the other day. So my head's fucked up. Nothing I can do about it.

All right. So about the whole shitheads thing… if you're reading my diary, you don't have my permission, and so you are a shithead. Get over it.

…

I think I actually just used an ellipsis in a diary. Fuck, I might as well dress as Kyle from now on. Anyways, I guess I'll get on with what happened today.

I woke up late for school and tottered in at about noon. I would have gotten kicked out years ago if it weren't for Mr. Mackey. He gets it for free, and in exchange I get away with all kinds of shit. He even moved to middle and high school with my grade.

So classes were boring, of course. After school, I tagged along with Kyle to watch Stan's football practice. I lit up, even offered Kyle a smoke, but he said no, after the third time I asked. He was too busy watching them warming up. I teased him, of course. I think it went something like this.

"Want a smoke?"

"…"

"Kyle, want a smoke?"

"…"

"Mrs. Broflovski's a whore and Hitler's coming back."

"…"

"Stan told me to tell you he wants you to have a smoke."

"What? No he doesn't, he hates smokers!"

"So you're here every day, even for practice? You like them wearing those tight pants?"

"No, dude, I'm straight! I'm just here to support Stan."

"Sure you are."

Anyways, Stan is another closet case. I'm gonna have to get the two of them drunk sometime so they can fuck their little brains out and get over it. I'll have to take photos, too… gotta sell them to Bebe and the rest of the girls. They love seeing two hot guys making out and more, and Stan and Kyle actually turned out well. Stan's the quarterback for the team, and Kyle would look great in drag. Very girly-looking.

After football practice, Kyle went to go wait for Stan outside the locker room. I'd gotten plenty of money the previous night, so I decided a little vacation was in order. I went to the train tracks, right on time for the 4:52 train. And that was that, quick and easy.

I wound up in hell, as usual, and waved to Charon on the way in. Turns out the Greeks got the name right, but not much else… he's really Satan's secretary, not a boatman. He sorts out the newly deceased, like Saint Peter up above. He sent me straight to Damien's, though I did get to pet Cerb on the way in, slobbering oversized pooch that he is. I rang the doorbell, and Damien answered quickly. "Kenny! You should have told me you were coming!" His squeaky voice had randomly dropped about four octaves when I was twelve, down to a nice baritone. I wish I had a sexy voice like that, but we can't have everything.

"Sorry, man, my cell phone died." He'd given me a made-in-Japan cell phone a while back. Those things even get reception in hell. Apparently the designer was going to go to heaven, but Satan paid off St. Peter and we got him instead and he set up a network. So there's reception down here. "Can I come in, please? I took the train again, and you know that gives me a headache." Yeah, yeah, I know, I got hit with a train and just got a headache. The trick is, you have to put your head towards the train. It hits your head first and you die quickly. It does give you a bitch of a headache, though.

"Poor baby…" he leaned forward and kissed me, then put an arm around my shoulders and ushered me inside. Yeah, I know, we're sappy-sweet together. Come on, I'm allowed at least a little romance, right? Plus, it's Damien. "I was just about to pop in Fight Club… wanna watch it with me? It has Brad Pitt, you know you want to."

I grinned. Fight Club was always amazing. "Of course! Want me to get some popcorn or something?"

"Nah, just get your ass over here and we'll watch the movie."

I ran towards Damien's bed, where he was already sitting, and took a flying leap at him. He caught me, of course. He's pretty strong… apparently he found Bruce Lee and a bunch of old Chinese masters doing some training one day, and he's been practicing martial arts ever since. I'm not complaining. Gave him a killer body. He's pretty damn good, too… lots of time to practice. I suppose he doesn't have much to do around here except torture Ted Bundi and the other serial killers.

He caught me, and then pushed me down next to him and started tickling me. Another secret: I'm incredibly ticklish. Like, it's not even funny. You tickle me and it looks like I'm having a fucking seizure.

"Stop it!" I barely managed to squeak out around my laughter. "Seriously!" He stopped, and just collapsed on top of me. "Come on, get off, you're crushing me."

"Mmmm… nah," he mumbled from where his mouth was pressed into my belly. "Comfy."

"Come on, you know if you don't get off we're never gonna get to the movie." It was true. We fucked more than Satan and Saddam did whenever they got back together for a week. Damien's mom was a succubus, and sex is my business. Is it surprising our libidos are more than a bit out of control?

"Mmmmm…" he licked down to my waistband before I grabbed him by the ears and picked his head up.

"Please? I promise, once the movie's done, I'll stay here for two days straight. It's the weekend up there." I wheedled. Can you blame me? It's Brad Fucking Pitt and his sexy abs. I hope he ends up down here… maybe Damien and I will do a threesome with him if he does. We're in an open relationship; we bring in anyone we want to for a fuck. Most good-looking people end up in hell anyways.

"Blargh… okay, okay, I'll start the movie. But you owe me three bondage and two blowjobs for making me wait," he said. He flicked his fingers at the magma TV and it turned on. You think plasma TVs are good? Magma's even better. Colors are literally glowing.

"Of course!" I replied, and flopped over onto him, using his chest as a pillow while I watched the movie. He's taller than me too… he's like 6'1". It's a good thing he didn't turn out looking like his dad. That'd just be fucking weird.

The movie started, and we actually managed to sit quietly through about 15 minutes of it before Marla came on. I sat bolt upright. "Holy shit, Helena Bonham Carter is amazing. I want to be her, seriously." Damien reached up and pulled my head back down for a kiss.

"Yes, she's amazing, now lie down," he ordered lazily. I grinned.

"Make me."

Damien looked up and saw me grinning at him. He smiled wickedly. "You do know where this is going, don't you?"

"I'm to not go… somewhere," I replied. "Yeah, the bed sounds pretty nice to me."

"Hmmm… well, since you asked so nicely, I suppose I'll have to go torture Bundi some more. See ya!" And with that, he walked out.

I sat there fuming for a couple minutes. We usually did this, we'd either be incredibly sweet to one another, or incredibly cold, just so we could turn it around. Hell's a pretty monotonous place. We had to do something to relieve the boredom. But leaving me high and dry like that… damn, that was good.

I pulled on my shoes and headed out to where Damien said he was going, the part of hell where they kept the serial killers, but he wasn't there. Instead he'd used a thumbtack to add a sticky note to Ted Bundi's forehead. "Haha!" it said.

I grinned. Hide and seek today, then. That meant he'd found a new part of hell.

* * *

Yup. I know, Kenny and Damien are totally mood-swingy. They're supposed to be... it's fun. I write them in whatever mood I'm in at the time. Now I'm feeling mischievous.


End file.
